Not Okay
by jankmusic
Summary: "Sleep. You're safe now." Molly Hooper tries to help Sherlock as much as she can, even if he doesn't want it.—Part of the One-a-Day Challenge


Not Okay

Prompt: Through the fire

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

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"What makes you think this is okay?"

Molly Hooper stood her ground in her flat, glaring heavily at the soaked Sherlock Holmes who was standing in the middle of her sitting room. His face was gaunt and his facial hair was unkempt and she knew if his clothes were dry, they would be hanging off of him. Dark purple bruises were beneath each of his eyes and she couldn't tell if it was from sleep deprivation or if he had fading bruises from a gruesome beating to the face.

"It was a mistake to come here," Sherlock grumbled, turning away from Molly. "I just need to do this alone."

Molly raced passed him and blocked his exit from her flat. It was obvious that he had come here for a reason, but from the looks of it, it wasn't because he was injured and needed patched up.

"What do you need?" she asked, looking at him with wide eyes, breathing heavily. She would do anything for this man to return to the living.

"Get out of my way, Molly."

She shook her head resolutely. "You need to eat and sleep. You're not taking care of yourself out there!"

"This is the biggest case of my life—"

"And you're going to kill yourself before you've completed it!"

Suddenly Sherlock put his hands on her upper arms and forcibly moved her away from the door. She stumbled a bit, but before she could say anything, he had slipped from her flat, slamming the door behind him.

Molly slumped against the wall, dropping her head into her hands. The entire scene was unexpected, from the moment he broke into her flat and declaring he needed a place to stay, to the moment he felt the need to escape. It was unintentional if Molly overwhelmed him with her questions about his health and her fussing over how thin he had gotten in the six and a half months since she had last seen him. She complained that it must have been weeks since he had a proper meal, let alone a shower, a change of clothes, and sleep. It was at that point he tried to leave.

Shaking her head from her thoughts, she stood shakily and locked her door. She had been getting ready for bed, and after standing still in her silent flat for a few minutes, she moved away from the door and towards her bedroom, Toby winding around her feet as she walked. She plopped down on her bed and carefully crawled beneath her heavy quilt, shivering from the lack of heat in her sheets. She knew it would warm up eventually.

As she lay in her bed waiting for sleep to overcome her, she couldn't stop worrying about Sherlock. She knew Mycroft wasn't aware that his brother was alive yet, even though it had been a year and a half since his faked suicide, which meant Sherlock was returning to the streets of London.

For a brief moment, Molly was overcome with the fear that Sherlock had resorted to drugs again. It took everything in her not to call the emergency contact number that Sherlock had given her to get ahold of Mycroft if it was necessary. If Sherlock was back on cocaine and morphine, there really wasn't anything she could do for him; his highs would be so bad that he could cause her physical harm if she tried to stop him.

And she already saw a glimpse of it when he shoved her out of the way.

It took several hours for her worry to abate and feel sleepy. There wasn't anything she could do at the moment, but she knew once it was daylight she would search for him and try to get him to come back to her flat for just a few hours.

Just on the edge of sleep, Molly was startled to alertness when she heard the distinct sound of her front door closing in the silence of her flat. She stiffened for a moment, unable to even breathe, and she only relaxed when she heard the telltale footfalls of Sherlock Holmes walking.

She rolled to her other side and promptly ignored him when she felt his presence in her doorway. She was too emotional now and she didn't want to risk saying something offensive to him in his state, especially if there was a chance he was high.

He stood there silently for nearly a minute, and then he walked away. Molly listened as he moved about her flat. She heard the sound of her fridge opening and closing, then the sound of her microwave running. She imagined he found the takeaway she had left from earlier in the evening. The smell of chicken chow mein slowly filled her flat, and Molly let out a sigh of relief that he was eating. She didn't even care if he ate all of her leftover Chinese, she just hoped he had enough sense to remove his wet clothing before settling in at her kitchen table. He was going to catch his death if he didn't get dry soon, especially in her drafty flat.

Molly was almost counting the minutes before she heard her kitchen sink running and she assumed he was rinsing the dishes he used for his meal. Then she heard him walk around again, and then the sound of her shower running.

While the shower was running, she heard him walk back towards the front of her flat. Molly almost got out of bed to investigate, but then she heard his returning footsteps and the sound of her bathroom door closing.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, thinking he would be gone by the time she woke up. She was only dozing when she him enter her bedroom and go straight to her closet. She knew what he was looking for; she had two emergency outfits, complete with socks, underwear, and trainers and one pair of pajamas hidden away beneath two loose floorboards. She heard him shifting around boxes and bags, and finally, Molly turned around, watching him in the darkness.

He dressed quickly into the pajamas, and Molly only caught a glimpse of his backside before he pulled up his pants. Then he slid on his sleeping trousers and the soft cotton tee. She watched with wide eyes as he walked to her bed and slid beneath the blankets, lying on his stomach.

He stretched his arm out with his palm up. Hesitantly, Molly reached for his hand and he laced their fingers. The only sound in the room that could be heard was her soft breathing as she eyed him critically. He was clean shaven now, which took away part of the haggard look he was sporting. But he still looked malnourished and exhausted.

"I'm not high," he whispered, his deep baritone startling her. She looked him in the eye and he gave her hand a tentative squeeze. "And I apologize if I hurt you. I was not in the right state of mind when I first arrived."

"It's alright," Molly murmured, quickly forgiving him. She watched as his eyes fluttered closed and he struggled to stay awake. After a few seconds, his eyes opened again, and he stared hard at her. She could see him deducing her and she wanted him to stop; he could do that later. "You never have to walk through the fire alone, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered, returning the gentle squeeze of his hand. "Sleep. You're safe now."

And with that, his eyes fluttered closed, and Molly knew he succumbed to his sleep deprivation. It didn't take long for her to follow suit.

When she woke up in the morning, he was still there, holding her hand.

_Fin._

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BB/N: Thank you for reading!


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